


Facets

by ClockworkMecha



Category: CSI: Miami
Genre: Child Abuse, Courtship, Domestic Violence, Established Relationship, Explicit Language, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Older Man/Younger Woman, Patricide, Racist Language, Secrets, Shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:53:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26709307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClockworkMecha/pseuds/ClockworkMecha
Summary: Set during the events of Season 4. As she grows closer to Horatio, Marisol becomes curious about her lover's past, and frustrated by his evasiveness. In conducting her own investigation, she learns that he is not the knight he appears to be.
Relationships: Horatio Caine/Marisol Delko-Caine
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	Facets

He was moving again.

Marisol's eye opened, and she glanced over groggily to see her bedfellow, shrouded in darkness, feebly stirring. He quietly moaned. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Horatio."

He grunted softly. "Marisol?" He turned tiredly over to look at her, his hair tussled against the pillow. "Are you all right? What is it?"

"Just heard you talking in your sleep."

He sighed. "Not the first time, I know."

Grasping the headboard behind her, Marisol sat up. Her breath caught as her bare chest was exposed to the air. She'd gotten more used to Horatio's home over the course of their courtship, the Spartan settings familiar to her now. Caine wasn't exactly a man of wealth and taste when it came to interior decoration, but she felt safe around him. When she'd first taken off her wig, he'd merely given her that small smile of his. She'd found it mysterious in the past but realized then that it had been merely shy. Horatio didn't underestimate her, but he was fiercely protective of her. He was looking up at her tiredly now, and with some embarrassment. "Hope you didn't hear anything intimate."

"Nothing about past girlfriends," she reassured, "but I think I heard something about your parents." His expression darkened, and he looked away. "Horatio?" She asked, concerned, "Was it something I said?"

He glanced back up at her and lifted a bare arm to run his hand over her cheek. "Not the best conversation to be having at two in the morning." She wasn't sure if he was just tired, or sincerely wanted to drop it. She lowered herself back to lie down, and nodded, kissing the top of his head. Horatio closed his eyes, and she watched him drift off before falling asleep herself.

She was doing her makeup the next morning when he came up behind her in the mirror. Marisol smiled, and he lowered his head to kiss her shoulder.

"Next week, if you're not busy?" He asked, glancing up.

She smiled coquettishly. "I could probably pencil you in."

He chuckled. "Come on, I'll drive you home, at least."

Riding in the passenger seat, Marisol thought of the old knife wound in his side. She'd first seen it when she'd slipped his shirt off to fall on the floor beside his bed. Horatio had been utterly worried when she saw it, only for her to kiss the scar.

"You all right?" Horatio asked, his eyes flicking over toward her in the rearview mirror.

"Just tired and thinking about today. I'm lucky that I have this job. I can't thank Eric enough for driving me to the interview for it."

Marisol knew that the amount she was making was small, but she was freelance writing for a gardening magazine. It wasn't the most interesting line of work, but she was grateful for it.

"He's a good man," Horatio commented.

"What's he like in the field?" Marisol asked, genuinely curious. She knew Eric as two people, before and after her illness. He was once her impulsive little brother, crawling out the window to go party with his friends. Now, however, he was protective of her, at times overly so. Still, his hands were always there to guide her to eat and lie down.

"He does his job well, if that's what you're asking," he replied, "He's intelligent, with a bit of fire to him. I wouldn't have him on my team if I couldn't rely on him. Why do you ask?"

She shrugged. "It's just interesting, getting another perspective." Leaning back against the seat, she wondered what other face Horatio was concealing from her.

XXXXXX

It was a noisy night in John and Maureen Caine's home.

Horatio hated nights like this, when his dad had his buddies from the construction crew over. The living room would always be filled with the odors of booze, cigarette smoke, and sweaty bodies. His mother would be playing waitress, bringing drinks to the five or six assembled men. His dad would usually be bragging about something or other – he'd been insufferable over purchasing a handgun to keep the "colored trash" off his doorstep. Horatio had morbidly wondered at one point if his father shot himself in the head, would any brain matter hit the back wall, or if he completely lacked one.

Horatio tried to keep himself occupied by reading a book, but he couldn't shut out the voices. At sixteen, he felt utterly exhausted and lonely, his privilege to see friends taken away over a broken plate until further notice. The few band posters he'd put up had been ripped down by his father for "ruining the wall" with thumb tacks, and his wallet and the contents therein had been indefinitely confiscated for talking back. The concept of dismantling explosives fascinated him, but he couldn't get into the mechanics of it with the background noise.

"Hey, Horatio! Get down here!"

He sighed, shutting his book. They must have been bored tonight, and it was time to call in a court jester. He just hoped he wouldn't be humiliated for too long, this time. He left his room, and headed down the hallway, a door to his left creaking open. Raymond stared at him, a fearful look on his face. Horatio reassuringly put his hand on his side of the door. Raymond nodded and closed the door.

"There he is, my pride and joy!" His father called out, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

"He's a scrawny kid – the hell are you giving him to eat, Maureen, chicken feed?" Laughs sounded, and she lowered her head, ashamed. Horatio glared, and walked over to sit beside her.

"Mom, why don't you head upstairs? I'll take care of this."

"Aww, isn't that sweet?" Horatio glared up at his father's friend, who laughed at him, the alcohol heavy on his breath. "Mama's boy is trying to protect her."

His mother clenched her fist on her lap. "Horatio, go away."

He felt hurt at that at but took in the sight of her face, her eyeliner smudged, and her upper lip swollen. He stood to move away from her while the others joked among themselves.

"What's the matter, boy? Sad?" His father taunted. Horatio kept his back to him. "You think you're so much better than us, but the reality of it? You're trash. Who's gonna think that you didn't come from Queens?"

Horatio wondered what his father's friends would think, if his father said that to any of them, and not him. It didn't matter to them when he was the object of humiliation.

He caught his mother's eye, and she shook her head, a terrified expression on her face.

Turning his head back, he saw his father charge at him. Horatio moved to the side and felt a pair of hands harshly seize him. "Let go of me!" He cried out. The man behind him laughed, and shoved him forward, back into his father's path. A fist collided with his face, knocking him sideways, and making him see white.

Horatio stumbled, and one of his father's friends laughed. "Kid can't take a punch, John!"

He laughed, turning to look at his wife, who stared with an appalled look on her face. "He takes after Maureen. Weak like she is."

Horatio stormed from the room, and stomped up the stairs, making a bee line for the bathroom. Grasping the chain to the overhead light, he yanked on it to stare at himself in the mirror.

Horatio winced at the sight of his eye, which had a dark bruise around it. He grabbed tissues from the nearby box and ran them under the sink.

Footsteps sounded behind him, and Raymond knelt beside him and pulled out the first aid kit. Horatio muttered, "Thanks." He turned, trying to get a proper angle in the bathroom mirror as he cleaned off his face. The spiderweb crack in the bottom right corner distorted it. His father's last outburst broke it, and he hadn't yet heard of them getting a new one yet.

"Why do you take that shit?" Raymond asked.

"You wanna go down there?" Horatio countered.

Raymond shook his head, his face pale.

"I didn't think so."

Inane laughter sounded from below, and Raymond muttered, "I want out."

"I know," he said, staring at their lost reflections, "But how?"

XXXXXX

A half-moon glowed over Miami, the light muted, and casting a ghostly hue over the park.

Horatio had often come here on his own after work to simply sit, allowing the day to roll off his back, and watch people pass by. It had been relaxing to him, on his own with the setting sun. Walking alongside Marisol along the lighted paths, listening to the cicadas and crickets, he felt a sense of sereneness.

He wondered if he was cut out for this. Marisol kept up a happy countenance near him, but he'd seen the mask slip a few times. She was utterly frustrated and aggravated with her lot, but she didn't complain. He admired that about her.

Though, what did bother him, more than much else, was how she appeared to be becoming more distant toward him. While she didn't pull away from him, she tended to have less to say.

He missed that about her, as he enjoyed hearing her talk about her time as an assistant curator, though she thought that she hadn't had much interesting to report outside of speaking about planning new exhibits of ancient queens, and supporting restoration work of plaster cast molds. He felt a wall standing between them, and it grew slowly more palpable now. Horatio feared at first that Marisol's health had taken a turn for the worse, and she had been putting off telling him, but he doubted that now. She had allowed him to come to her treatment, after all. If anything, the wall was built by him, and by how little she knew about him.

He considered telling her the truth of who he was, more than once, but always turned his head away from it. Horatio knew that he couldn't hide it from her forever, and he'd learned that the hard way with hiding Madison's parentage from Yelina. Marisol had enough on her plate, already, he thought to himself, and perhaps it was for the best. He'd walked out on Rebecca after her views had clashed with his. Perhaps Marisol would make a similar break, and no hard feelings. But he knew that for him, he couldn't, try as he might, bring himself to consider that possibility. For the short time that he and Rachel had been together, there had been happiness, and the memory of her haunted him. He'd stepped back from the idea of having another relationship after her murder until Marisol had asked him to dinner.

The tenderness he shared with her utterly scared him. He'd been with others before her, but they had been quicker nights of passion. On their third night of sleeping together, he'd cringed as Marisol slowly explored him, running her hands more slowly over him to map him out. Memories he'd thought were buried by decades slowly reawakened under her fingers, and he shivered and moaned in her hands. She kissed so softly down his back, where he'd been whipped with a power cord at fifteen. She gently caressed his chest, which had borne bruises from his father slamming him against the wall at thirteen…He felt helpless with each touch – didn't she know what she was doing to him?

He whimpered in her arms, and she caught his cheek in her hand. She brushed away the tear that had fallen from his eye, and he buried his head in her breasts. He felt ashamed to cry over being nothing more than touch-starved. When Marisol laid her chin on top of his head, he'd thought that he'd sidestepped the main issue, but now he wasn't so sure.

Marisol tossed a coin into the park's water fountain, and he decided not to think further on it for the moment. He asked teasingly if she believed in wishing, and she replied, "Can't hurt to try."

Turning back, she had a question of her own. "What would you wish for?"

Horatio cocked an eyebrow at that. "It's a bit of a secret."

Marisol moved toward him. "Oh?"

He stepped toward her, and whispered just over her ear, "More time with you."

She glanced up at that, and asked, "Isn't your job important to you?"

"But so are you," he brushed his fingers through the strands of her wig.

Someone catcalled at them, and Marisol shot an annoyed look into the distance. "No peace and quiet anywhere, I swear."

Horatio lowered his hand. "Best we disappear, then."

XXXXXX

It had been Raymond's fault, in retrospect.

Horatio had been studying for his chemistry test. He'd felt utterly overwhelmed by it, the figures and facts swimming in his head.

The door opened, and he jumped at that, looking up to see John Caine framed in the doorway, his salt and pepper hair askew, his dirty work uniform still on, and an annoyed look on his face. "What?" Horatio asked, utterly confused.

"You know what." His father glared at him. "You break anything else today? What about the living room lamp?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Horatio said plainly, spreading his hands in incredulousness over his open book.

His father folded his arms, leaning against the doorjamb. "Amazing, you fuck up even lying."

"I didn't, Dad! I've been up here the entire time!"

"Then what happened?"

"I don't know!" He exclaimed, his voice rising in frustration. "Why don't you ask Raymond?"

He gasped as John seized him by the shirt collar, yanking him partly up, the book falling out of his hands. "Stand up all the way." Horatio hesitated, and he said, "Do what I'm telling you, or that favorite shirt of yours is going in the trash." He slowly stood to full height, his fingers grasping at the denim fabric of his jeans. John drew his massive hand back. Horatio cringed, and his father's hand cracked across his face. Slumping down, Horatio caught his reflection in his bedroom mirror, and saw a purple mark on his face.

"You know what you are, Horatio?" John hissed. Horatio stifled a whimper at the pain in his cheek, his hand over the bruise. Backed physically into a small space between his father and his bed, he felt trapped. John grabbed him by his belt loops. "A goddamn waste." He threw him, Horatio barely stumbling out of the way of a kick to the back of his leg. Horatio spun, and raced for the doorway. A hand grabbed the back of his shirt, yanking him backward, and slamming him against the dresser. Groaning from the pain, Horatio feebly lifted his shaking hands as his father seized the front of his shirt.

However, the anger slowly drained from John's face, and he cleared his throat, letting go of him. "Go fix yourself up." He strode from the room, leaving Horatio shaken and feeling utterly alone.

A few hours later, Horatio's keys jingled as he took them out of his pocket. He headed quickly for the front door, his cheek still numb from icing his face. The television babbled from the living room doorway. Cigarette smoke wafted up to him. Glancing over the banister, he saw Ray sitting beside the stairs, with the end of one lit, the empty pack lying beside him. Ray looked up at him and shook his head. For a moment, Horatio wanted to strike his brother for his disapproving look at him.

Their father called from the doorway, "Horatio, is that you, boy?"

"Unless you were expecting someone else?" He called back, his voice slurred by the bruise.

His father mimicked his voice, and yelled, "Fucking moron!" He stood, and moved to the doorway, bracing one hand to the side of it. "The hell do you think you're doing? It's after eight!"

Ray doused his cigarette, and Horatio glanced away. John commanded, "You look at me when I talk to you, boy."

He slowly turned back. "Going out."

His father reached in his pocket and threw a wad of cash at him. "Make yourself useful and get me some steaks."

Horatio knelt to pick up the wad. Heading down the stairs, he yanked open the door.

"Hey, get me a candy bar too!" Ray yelled. Horatio flipped him off just before the door snapped shut, cutting off his father's laugh.

He was sitting on the stoop of an old house when a pair of headlights illuminated his shoes forty-five minutes later. Raising his head from his arm, and wiping the tears from his eyes, he looked up to see his mother rolling down her window. "Get in," she ordered tightly.

He'd barely had time to fasten his seatbelt when she took off, rocketing down the residential street. Half-turning, and still wearing her nurse uniform, Maureen shoved him in the arm. "What were you thinking?!" Bob Dylan blasted from the car stereo, and the free strands of her loose hair made her look ragged.

He glanced away, and she demanded, "Horatio, I asked you a question."

He glared at her. "Can you not see my face?"

Maureen sighed, turning back to the road just in time to avoid hitting a garbage can. Horatio grabbed the dashboard at the hard turn. "He hit you again, didn't he?"

"Yeah."

She stopped at a red light and tapped her fingers against the steering wheel before signaling left. "Home's straight, Mom." He corrected.

"I know." She turned the wheel and took the car on a side route.

Parking near a bridge's support beam, she said, "Get out. You and I need to talk."

Maureen unfastened herself and slid out, with him following more slowly. He watched her climb up and sit on the trunk. Raising her hands, she put her face into them, slowly drawing her fingers down with a long exhale. "All right, what happened?"

"Dad accused me of something I didn't do," he muttered, putting his hands in his pockets, and looking away from her.

"Stop turning your head," she corrected him, "You want your old man to respect you, consider looking at him head on."

"Like you do?" He asked, and she scowled at that.

"Kid, I'm not going to fight you as well tonight, but you have to let that roll off your back. Reacting is not going to make it any easier on you."

Horatio's hands dropped from his pockets, and his fists clenched. "The night before my last birthday, he told me that he wouldn't be stuck with us if you'd swallowed!"

She hesitated, and muttered, "It's just words."

He stared incredulously at her, shaking his head. "Mom, you can't mean that."

"Shut up, and listen to me for once," she hissed, "You want this to get better? You hold your tongue, and act like an adult."

"An adult?" He laughed, walking around the car. "Oh, good one! There's no adult in the Caine household!" He picked up a rock and threw it in the bay. "What a joke!"

XXXXXX

Marisol ran the brush over her wig, carefully styling it before setting it back on the mannequin head. She turned her head from side to side in the mirror above it, looking at the blue veins standing out against her pale flesh. She dressed in her best clothes and makeup outside as a treat, but wore sweats and pajamas inside. Somewhere, the "sick girl" became her, and then the "sick girl" didn't exist – it was just her.

It was part of why she didn't wish to return home, and Eric understood that. She wouldn't be pitied, or seen as the sick daughter, while on her own. She couldn't thank him enough for that. Lying on her bed were several drafts of her latest contribution to the magazine.

Marisol had previously come to hate her own bed. She'd spent months in it, staring listlessly at the ceiling fan from the sheer pain while outside people enjoyed their lives. When exactly that had changed, she wasn't sure. The hatred had been left behind by nothing but hollowness. Still, when she picked up strands of red hair on the pillow beside her, she felt something different. Was it giddiness, or something more sensual? What it was, she didn't know, but it was alive.

Her support group lost a member. Janet would no longer be talking about her daughter getting ready for prom. At times, Marisol wanted to grasp her chair during a meeting, slam it against the floor, and scream, but she figured that she wouldn't be the only one. Voicemails from her sisters inquired as to whether she was getting enough sleep, and if she was going to be meeting with her doctor soon. Her parents were the worse, wanting to know why she was still straining herself by riding the bus, or getting groceries.

The sun would set, though, and there Horatio would be, standing on her porch, waiting to vanish into the night with her. She'd joked once that she'd felt like a conspirator, and she still did in some ways. Her companion would be lit up beside her in the reds, greens, and blues of neon lights as they walked the streets together. "I'm not a fun date, sorry," she commented once.

"I'm not exactly the most entertaining man," he reassured. Perhaps not, she thought to herself, though he was selling himself a bit short – the detective certainly knew Miami's night life well, and often made his own comments regarding the different clubs she pointed out.

Still, though, her one rule was simple: he wouldn't spoil her. If that meant that they had to get a bit more creative on dates, she didn't hear him complain.

The waves lapped on the shore, a cloud drifting over the waxing gibbus moon.

Sitting on the ramp leading up to a lifeguard station beside him, she dug her fork into her pad thai. Horatio sat beside her, a container of ramen just before him.

"Wasn't the moon goddess known for being faithful?" He asked curiously, staring above the shore.

"Oh, well there's a bit more to it than that," she replied with a grimace, "Selene was a titan, as opposed to a goddess, and she fell in love with a human shepherd, Endymion. She had him enchanted to be eternally young, and to sleep forever. She had fifty children with him, but that was while he was sleeping…Then again, as far as Greek beliefs went, she could've done far worse."

At his lack of comment, she felt a bit discouraged. "I'm not boring you, am I?" She asked, tilting her head slightly.

"Not at all. It's not something I'm as interested in, but you're passionate about it." He leaned back, and she smiled at that.

After tossing the containers into an open trash can, they headed back toward the small parking lot. She shivered, grasping at her shoulders. Horatio took off his suit jacket, and Marisol shook her head in embarrassment. "It's just a night breeze."

"I'm wearing a long sleeve shirt. You're in a halter top," he responded plainly, folding it over his arm, "I wouldn't think less of you, either way."

Marisol considered for a few moments and held out her hand. He handed the jacket over, and she tossed it over her shoulders to wear. Horatio gave a slight smile and looked away. She chuckled at that. "What?"

"Oh, nothing."

"I see that blush, Lieutenant," she teased.

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you mean, ma'am. We're in the shadows."

Marisol was glad that he was looking away from her as her smile slipped. Even though he was teasing her, he was continuing to lie.

Horatio flipped his wrist over to check his watch. The face read eleven. "Do you have anywhere you have to be tomorrow?" He asked.

Marisol shook her head and smiled. "What about you?"

He smirked. "No. Want to take a look around?"

She nodded, grasping his hand, and led him back into the city. Horatio's free hand ghosted once over his holstered pistol before he let go. There were worse things that he couldn't protect her from with the barrel of a gun.

He wondered if she could hide in his jacket from the Reaper, if even for a moment.

XXXXXX

The library computer hummed as Marisol sat before it, paging through document after document of scanned articles from previous decades of newspapers based in Queens. Beside her sat a notebook, with several entries crossed out. She figured that it was a long shot and felt guilty paging through the papers. Still, Horatio knew more about her than she did about him, and, in a way, she felt like she was competing with him. Regardless, she'd had enough of being sheltered from her own family – she didn't need to deal with it from him, as well.

It hadn't been her first trip to the library, and she cross-referenced what she knew – Caine wasn't necessarily a popular name, but the amount of people in New York City turned it into a sea. He'd mentioned to her his brother's name, and that he'd spent his junior year of high school onward in foster care after his parents died. Regardless, her inquiry did get her out more often, and gave her an excuse to slink off and cozy up with a book about the Pyramid of the Sun.

She was about to consider giving up altogether when her eyes settled on an archived article from the early 70's. Deciding to try once more, she opened the PDF file.

Marisol stared at the yellowed newspaper clipping and wasn't sure whether to feel shock or pity. There was Lieutenant Caine, only much younger, wearing bloodstained jeans and a t-shirt. A distraught look was on his face, and his hands were bound behind his back. He was flanked by two police officers, one of which had him by the arm. The headline advertised a grizzly scene of two murders, with both of his parents dead. Disbelief seized her. This couldn't be the same man who was so kind and gentle toward her, always making time for her, and making her heart flutter whenever he said her name. She had to let go of her feelings, however, with the truth smacking her in the face. She slowly lowered her head to her hand with a heavy sigh upon reading that Horatio and his mother had been abused by his father for several years. The newspaper went on to say that Mrs. Caine had been beaten and shot by her husband, while Mr. Caine had been stabbed by his own son. Marisol swallowed hard. It made too much sense, for as much as she refused to admit it to herself. It explained that rage that she could see brewing in Horatio just under the surface after she'd been attacked. It also explained his dodginess around the subject of his parents.

Marisol closed the article. Folding her hands, she cracked her knuckles. Her mind entertained a fantasy of her, a teen again, inserted into Horatio's home. She would be there, wearing her hoodie after track practice, her ponytail thrown over her shoulder. She'd spread her arms out protectively before Horatio, and yell at his father to stop hurting him. She chided herself. She wasn't even a thought when Horatio was sixteen, and even if she had been there, his father would have beaten her up, too. So, what would she have accomplished, anyway? Holding his hand on the Brooklyn Bridge, and coaxing him to run away with her from that wretched home?

Her cell phone vibrated and she jumped. She hoped it wasn't Horatio, or Eric, for that matter. She wanted to talk to someone, anyone, other than them.

Much to her relief, her sister's voice greeted her. "Hey there, Marisol, I was thinking of you."

She smiled and kept her voice down. "Oh, really?"

"Yeah, I was wondering if you wanted to go to the beach with us next week. It would just be you, me, and the kids, something to take your mind off things. You know," her sister's tone became teasing, "You could bring that handsome lieutenant of yours along, too."

"No!" Marisol's sharp tone of voice caused a few heads to raise. Clearing her throat, she lowered her voice and said, "I mean, sure, I'd like to go – it's hard to coordinate with him since he's usually busy."

"You okay? I only thought I'd ask since I've seen him standing there before. He's kind of like a weird local attraction, wearing a suit jacket and dress pants at the shoreline."

Marisol smiled sadly, rising to collect her notebook. "I'm fine. Let's just have a girls' outing, all right?"

"Sounds good. This Saturday all right?"

"Sure." She quickly left the library, deciding not to return for quite a while.

XXXXXX

"See something interesting?" Horatio asked, glancing over at Marisol for a moment. She was looking out the window of the Hummer and said little outside of a few friendly comments.

Marisol shrugged, and glanced back at him. "I think I saw someone I knew from my job. Not sure though."

Horatio opted to change the subject, as she didn't continue. "Did you have a good time at the beach?"

She nodded. "Always good to see Lupita and my nieces. Funny part is, my sister bought them these buckets to build fancy sandcastles with, and what do they do?"

"They dig a hole."

"They dig a hole," she agreed, chuckling, "I think we all did that at one point."

"A rite of passage, surely," he commented dryly, pulling up to Marisol's home. He slid out of the driver's side to head up the stone walk. However, he didn't hear her following behind him.

He turned back to look at her, and Marisol hesitated near the Hummer. "Something wrong?"

She shook her head, taking a shaky breath.

Horatio took off his sunglasses, and stared at her, his face slowly falling. Marisol moved past him to unlock the front door.

Orange light streamed in through the sitting room's blinds, hitting the kitchenette table. Marisol put her bag down on it. "I was thinking boliche tonight – you haven't had that before. It's kind of like a pot roast."

"Sounds good."

Marisol pulled the meat from the fridge and placed it on the cutting board.

"Anything you need me to do?"

"There are some tomatoes in the fridge. Could you get them?"

He nodded, and pulled them out of the vegetable bin, noticing that Marisol's food stores were stocked rather low. She turned and shrugged. "Haven't caught the bus much recently – it's easy to become a hermit when you work from home. Not that I was Miss Popularity to begin with, anyway."

He placed the tomatoes on the counter. "I could understand that."

Marisol smiled wryly. "Couple of headcases that we are." It slipped off. "You know, I have more free time than I would have otherwise, given what I'm dealing with. It gives me opportunities to do research on events, and people."

Horatio's hands moved to his belt loops, but he caught himself, dropping them. This wasn't a suspect he was speaking with. "Marisol, what did you read?"

"Nothing that isn't public knowledge," she replied shortly, slicing hard into the meat, and trying to push the image from her mind that she was cutting a human body part, "It was an article from New York. You told me you were from Queens."

"What did it say?" he asked quietly, though he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach about it.

"You killed your own father." She dropped the knife sideways on the cutting board and turned to stare at him head on. Horatio stood silently before her, and she said, "And he killed your mother right in front of you."

His sunglasses made an ugly cracking noise in his hand. "And what did you think, when you learned that?"

"What's it matter? I'm dead anyway." He seized her shoulder at that, and she tried to yank herself out of his grasp. "Horatio, let go!" She panted, twisting wildly.

Fury sparked through his eyes like electricity, and Marisol flinched. His breath caught at her reaction, however, and he dropped his hand. "I'm sorry." Wiping off her hands, she brushed the strands of her wig back into place. "Please, don't say that about yourself."

"It's true," she replied pointedly.

"I know."

She relaxed, his distraught expression registering to her. "I'm sorry, it's just not easy to deal with. This just doesn't 'go away.'"

"It probably doesn't help that you've found out something about your boyfriend that you'd rather not have known." He bent one of the sunglass frames against his hand.

"Wouldn't be the first time that you've hidden something from me," she murmured, glancing to the cutting board, but thinking better of picking up the knife again.

Horatio thought of Rachel, lying dead on a stretcher. "I am trying to protect you."

"From what, exactly? Unless it involves a case?" She questioned. He hesitated, and she pressed, concerned, "Horatio, tell me. Is there something wrong? Are you in trouble?"

He bent the frame back into place. "I was served with a subpoena in New York, but that's the extent of it."

"Okay, not in trouble, that's a relief."

His tone hardened, and he shifted his weight. "To be blunt, you're bothering me."

Marisol scowled at that. "Well, that makes two of us, then. You're continuing to talk down on me, and I don't like it."

"I don't want to harm you."

"Unless I've missed something, you aren't," she replied firmly, "Those men at the spa weren't there because of you, Horatio. You even let me stay at your own home to keep me safe. So, what makes me different? Anything? Not every woman you were interested in was a combatant."

"That isn't the point."

"Then what is?"

"Rachel Turner was murdered to ruin me."

"I'm sorry that happened, Horatio, but you have to understand something: you aren't being punished. Am I being punished for something because I have cancer?"

He looked offended by the notion. "No, of course not."

She drummed her fingers on the counter. "Then why do you think this about yourself?"

"You don't know what it's like to live with that over your head," he explained, "I can't justify it to myself – I won't. I was angry when I killed him, and I have to live with that ugliness."

She stopped her drumming. "You sure you're living with it? It doesn't seem like that to me – you're surviving."

"And why are you concerned as to whether I come to terms with it?"

She sighed and shook her head. "Because I love you."

He froze, lost for words. The blood roared in Marisol's ears as she waited for his response. "Even after what you've found out about me?"

Marisol nodded. "Yes, even after that. You have no idea how much it brightens up my day to hear you pull up, or to go for walks with you. Just being able to talk to you, and not have it be about my illness, or how I need to be protected, is a breath of fresh air." She drew her hand toward her chest. "You treat me like I'm a person, not fine china."

Horatio smiled warmly at her. "I didn't realize that I made you so happy."

She grinned. "You kidding?" The grin slipped. "If we're going to continue, you can't lie to me."

"I haven't," he replied flatly.

"By omission you have," her voice took on an edge.

"It's not my fault if I talk in my sleep."

"That's not the problem, and you know it," she replied pointedly, "Pity is one thing that I'm handed in droves. I'm sorry to say this, but if that's what's pushing you to be with me, then you should see yourself out."

Horatio moved at that, though it was toward her. Placing his hand on her back, he pushed her toward himself, Marisol allowing him to do so. "It isn't."

"Then what is?" She asked quietly.

"Because I love you, too." For a moment, she thought that he was saying it to humor her, but a fire burned behind his blue eyes. Marisol felt nervous for a moment – she didn't put it past him to tear apart the city for her, if need be. He saw her fear, and let go, a crestfallen look on his face.

She shook her head. "I didn't mean it in that way. I just don't want you to carry that anger within you."

Backing away from her, Horatio placed his sunglasses on the kitchen table. He'd been fiddling with them so much in his hands during their conversation that Marisol wondered if he'd either bent them out of frame, or at least badly smudged the lenses. "You can't expect me to just 'get better.'"

"I never said I did," Marisol corrected him. She was a little hurt by his defensiveness, but she understood where it was coming from – an old wound that had never fully healed.

"You also have enough problems to deal with," he said, "This can wait."

Marisol held up a finger. "Stop right there. I'm not going to be your crutch, but don't you dare shut me out." He said nothing, and she lowered it. "The moment you start using my cancer as an excuse is the moment I start losing respect for you." He glanced away, ashamed. She folded her arms and leaned against the counter. "What am I going to do with you, Horatio?" He raised his gaze quickly, and she was surprised to see the nervous apprehension on his face. Dropping her arms, she walked over to him, and hugged him. Horatio hesitated, his breath catching in his throat, before putting his arms around her. She comforted, "It's all right, I'm not letting go."

He sighed, lowering his head to her shoulder. "Thank you."

Drawing out, she brushed back his hair, and kissed his forehead. "Help me finish making dinner."

He nodded at that, conversation dying between them, save for his following her instructions, and asking questions regarding them. At least the boliche came out well.

It wasn't one of her better days, she knew as much. It felt as if her mouth was fighting her, and she had to push the plate away early. "I'll wrap it," she mumbled.

He put his fork down at that, and she said, "If you're hungry, you can eat. I'm not." When he didn't continue, she raised an eyebrow. "You really don't want to eat something we both worked on? Shame."

He picked his fork back up, and she laughed, glad to have won over him. Even so, she knew that both were waiting for the other shoe to drop.

With the plates in the sink, Marisol made a half-hearted suggestion. "We could watch a movie."

He shook his head at that, and she raised a hand, indicating the sitting room. "I'll be there in a moment. Beer?"

"No, thanks." His voice was still gentle, but she had the feeling that he was tugging her toward the conversation.

Marisol sat down beside him on the couch. Horatio folded his hands in his lap and looked down. "It's hard for you to talk about, isn't it?"

"Mm-hm. Not exactly the most romantic thing, either." He glanced sideways up at her.

"Does Eric know?"

"No." She blushed at that, and he shook his head. "You're like him in that way, Marisol. You want to find the truth of the matter."

"How long did your father put you through all of that?" She asked, a chill running down her spine.

"Twelve years, from when I was four to when I was sixteen." He paused as her hand went to her mouth. "I can't remember all of it; the time's fuzzy. My father could be good to me, or at least civil. Other times, he could be outright cruel. There are things that trigger odd memories I have. Getting backed into a corner is one."

"It's why you don't look anyone in the eye, is it?" Marisol asked.

Horatio gave her a slight smirk, and she knew that she was right. She folded her hands, and sighed. "It makes sense. He wasn't a predictable guy to live with."

The smirk fell. "And you know what happened that night when he shot my mother."

He could still see it in his mind's eye, his father menacing his mother with his handgun in the kitchen.

Horatio had been working on his homework and had been trying to shut out the yelling from downstairs. Raymond had been out with his then-girlfriend at the time, much to his older brother's jealousy. He was still disallowed to see his peers outside of school hours, whereas his father saw Raymond off with a conspiratorial wink.

Still, he had a sinking feeling that if he wasn't there, Raymond would be the next target.

After his conversation with her beneath the bridge, Maureen had been looking into seeking a divorce, abandoning her continual refrain of "You boys need a father." She'd wanted to take Horatio and Raymond with her, but John wasn't taking the news well.

Horatio couldn't understand that about his father – he hated all three of them, yet he seemed to only want to have them around to control and torment.

His pencil snapped when he heard something crack off the counter, and smash on the floor. His mother groaned in pain as something hard struck something soft multiple times.

"Not so hot now, are you? Useless cunt!"

"John, please! Stop it!"

The notebook crashed to the floor as he raced out of his room, slipping on the throw rug to bash his shoulder on a wall in the hallway. Groaning, he rubbed at it, hopping onto the banister to slide down it.

"Oh, I'll stop it! I'll fucking end it, Maureen!"

Landing, he sped for the kitchen as his mother gasped. "J-John! Put the gun down, please!"

Horatio rushed into the room, his heart leaping into his throat at the sight of his mother, a gash slicing into her right cheek, and a dirty shoe print on her chest, held at gunpoint by his father.

Her blue eyes darted past the gun, and she gasped in fear. "Horatio, run!"

Horatio, however, darted forward, and grasped onto his father's arms, trying to knock the gun loose. The man fought back, jerking at him.

"GET OFF, YOU LITTLE SHIT!"

Horatio gasped as he was flung into a wooden kitchen chair, which broke under his weight. His head smacked against the back wall, and he collapsed to his elbows, stunned.

"I'll deal with you later!"

"Don't you dare!"

Horatio shook his head to regain his bearings and glanced up to see his mother grappling with his father. "ENOUGH!" He whipped her across the face with the pistol, causing her to reel and cower with the pain.

His eyes flickered over to a carving knife, lying abandoned on the cutting board next to a piece of bloody meat. Swallowing, he darted over, and grabbed it. Grasping it tightly in his sweaty hand, he plunged it toward his father's back as a shot rang out.

John let out a strangled gasp from the pain, spinning around to look at him. Maureen lay limp on the floor behind him. The gun slipped from the man's hand, and he collapsed against the counter. Blood bubbled and dripped out of his mouth.

Remembering himself, Horatio darted to the towel rack, and seized a dish rag, pressing it against his father's back. He tried not to disturb the knife further and to stop the bleeding. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," he whispered. His father feebly twitched, staring at Horatio as the life slowly died out of his eyes, his gaze becoming glassy and listless.

Horatio dropped his arms, shocked, and unable to process what he had just done. He turned to his mother, and fell to his knees before her still form, her sightless eyes staring up at the ceiling above. A dime-shaped hole was in her forehead, and a pool of blood ran onto the floor.

"Mom!" He shook her. "Mom, Mommy!" The vision of her blurred as tears ran down his face. "Mom, wake up, please! Please!"

Marisol's words drew him back to reality. "You tried to protect your mother. You were just a boy."

"I just…" His voice trailed off. "Something snapped in me. I shook her on the floor, trying to get her to wake up, even though she was already gone. It wasn't until the police pulled me off her to cuff my hands that I let go."

She put her hand on his wrist, and he stilled. His eyes widened as he realized that his hands had been shaking.

Old words whispered in his mind.

"Freak."

"Psycho."

"Animal."

"Monster."

"Sweetheart," she coaxed, brushing her hand over his cheek, "Darling."

He opened his mouth but wasn't sure what to say. She wasn't afraid of him, at least, not that he could tell. He drew back. "I killed my father and hid it from you. Why are you like this, now?"

"You're talking about it now," she explained. "And I don't have a leg to stand on, considering what I looked up about you. I want to make something clear: you are my lover, not my knight. What that means is that we take care of each other."

He nuzzled against her hand. "Is this what you want?"

"Yes, if you'll still have me."

He lowered her hand to hold it in his. "I would."

Reaching her other hand forward, she grasped his thigh. "Will you stay the night?" She asked.

"Wasn't planning on it," he let go of her.

Marisol's face fell. "Hey, if you need to go home after this, I understand. I just don't want to think of you driving like this."

"I'm not drunk, but the thought is appreciated. If you don't mind, I'd rather sleep on the couch tonight. I need to sort a few things out."

Marisol nodded, and rose. "All right, I have a spare blanket." Pulling it from the hallway closet, she dropped it on the couch. "Good night, sweetheart." She kissed him softly, and headed off to her room, the door shutting behind her.

He left his jacket on a side chair, and lay down under the blanket, closing his eyes.

A gasp broke his sleep, causing him to sit bolt upright. Horatio glanced around in surprise, not knowing where he was until he registered his surroundings. He glanced back over the couch, calling out, "Marisol!"

"I'm all right," she replied, her voice muffled by the closed door to her room.

He slid off the couch and headed toward her room. He knocked on the door, and she called for him to enter. The door swung open easily, and he stopped in surprise at the sight of Marisol within.

Sweat plastered her negligee to her body, and she sat on the edge of the bed, a garbage can pulled to her. She vomited into it and tugged a tissue from her nightstand. "I must look so elegant."

"I see worse things in my line of work," he replied.

"Ever go to bed with them?" She asked sardonically.

"There's an image," he mumbled.

She laughed and looked down at herself. "I may as well clean up." She rose in a wobbly fashion, putting a hand to her head.

Horatio offered his arm, but she declined. "I can make it."

"No, but isn't falling in the shower a concern that cancer patients have?" He asked.

"It is," she conceded, "I have a metal bar built into the side of the shower, so I'll be all right."

"Mind if I keep you company?"

She shrugged, leading the way. "Be my guest."

He sat on the floor beside by the tub, the curtain closed. The headiness of the steamy air and rushing water nearly caused him to doze off. A hand came out from behind the shower curtain, and he grasped it to kiss the palm. He let go of it, and she patted him on the head. Marisol shut off the water and grasped her towel. He pushed himself to his feet and followed her.

After pulling on spare clothing and getting rid of the trash bag, Marisol groaned at the state of her room. "Looks like I'll have to change the sheets," she mumbled, "Sweated right through them."

"I'm not going anywhere if you want another pair of hands," he muttered.

"You're a peach." Pillows, blankets, and sheets hit the floor as they stripped the bed, Marisol tossing a pillow at him playfully. Catching it, he deposited it on the lump of discarded bedclothes on the floor. Marisol clambered onto the bed to curl onto her side.

"You need anything, I'm just down the hall," he whispered, leaning forward to kiss her forehead.

"You don't have to," she grumbled, "I've taken care of myself." She turned over, cranky from lack of sleep. He patted her shoulder and headed back to the sitting room.

Horatio fell onto the couch, knocking one of the pillows and the blanket to the floor. He was out a few moments afterwards.

He was woken by the sound of running water and opened his eyes to see sunlight streaming through the sitting room window and landing on the carpet below him. Lowering his head, he ran his hands through his hair, now unkempt.

The water shut off, and Marisol called over to him, "I've made coffee! How do you take it?"

"Black, thanks." He dropped his hands to rub at his eyes.

Marisol walked over to him with his cup, and he took it with a word of appreciation. "Rough night for both of us," he commented.

"Perhaps I should've just let you go home," she commented, "I'm sorry I put you through that."

"You didn't, I wanted to help you." He took a sip. Lowering the cup, he commented, "We have all morning to do what we want."

She shrugged, "Personally, I just want to sit in your lap."

Horatio waved a hand. "By all means."

She settled herself into his lap. Placing her coffee cup onto the table, she drew up her knees. He placed his cup aside and brought his arm around her.

"Well, at least this wasn't a complete disaster," she muttered, leaning up against his chest, and kissing his collarbone.

He drew in a breath at that and gripped her leg. "Mari…"

She nuzzled up against him. His grip relaxed, and she breathed in his scent. "I meant it, you know," she said, raising her dark eyes to him, "I'm not letting go."

He smiled at that and kissed her softly on the lips.

XXXXXX

Horatio took the business card out of his pocket to turn it over once more in his hand. It was easy to direct others to receive assistance, but for him to do so himself, it was hard. He felt as if he was admitting that he had lost a fight, or gone mad, in seeking help, and it was hard to shake it.

More than once, he considered rising from the chair in the soothingly decorated waiting room. He wondered if he would fail, and not make any progress. He wondered if the doctor would find nothing wrong with him at all and tell him it was all in his head.

The door to the waiting room opened, and a glasses-wearing woman, her long black hair pulled back in a bun, gestured him to enter. "Lieutenant Horatio Caine."

He rose. "Ma'am."

Dr. Bodhi Patel led him into her office. The room was quiet, and in muted, warm colors. She smiled reassuringly, taking a chair beside her desk. "I appreciate you giving me the opportunity to help you."

Taking the seat facing the desk, Horatio commented, "I may not be the best patient."

"I will refrain from making any pre-judgments," she replied reassuringly, reaching onto her desk to pull out a clipboard. "From here, I would like to first get to know you in this session."

Horatio took it from her, and looked over it, noticing that several of the questions listed how he felt about certain subjects from one to ten on a scale, and his likes and dislikes. "Is this an interrogation?"

"We must start from the beginning, Lieutenant."

He was about to contradict but took up the pen. "All right."

XXXXXX

Water whispered beneath the raised deck. A woman crooned from the patio bar's speakers while low lights illuminated a few dancers on the floor.

The night wind stirred Horatio's hair from where he nursed his drink beside Marisol.

"You come here often?" She joked, "Wolf like you probably had no problem in picking up women."

He chuckled. "You'd be surprised."

"Fancy a dance?" Marisol asked. With a smile, she took a sip of her iced tea.

"If you're up to it," he replied, allowing her to assess the situation. Horatio himself had two left feet, as it were, thus he knew that she would have to lead.

Marisol rose with a wink. "Two or three numbers won't kill us."

She led the way to the floor, with him trailing close behind her, determined not to lose sight of her dark head amongst the ghostly blue and purple hues. Marisol turned and held out her hand to him. A blue light passed over her, illuminating her smile. Horatio took her hand and allowed her to tug him close, shrouding him in shadow as they swayed closely amongst the sea of dancers. She lifted her arms to link over his neck.

At times, he could still feel the Reaper tugging at the edge of his periphery, walking alongside them at the beach, staring back at them from bar mirrors, and slipping among the dancers. She felt the stranger's presence too, he knew, and she was looking over her shoulder just like him.

Marisol led him carefully, side-stepping a pair of dancers that had careened too close to him. She chuckled. "Saved you that time."

She'd promised she'd stay with him, she'd promised.

Leaning his forehead against hers, he closed his eyes.

He could only trust her.

**Author's Note:**

> I will not be posting any other stories, save this one. This had been brought on due to the stress of current events, largely the pandemic. I was not expecting to ever write for this fandom. As such, however, I chose not to post scenes of police work, given what has been occurring in the States. I do not consider the events of the series, post "Rio," canon, given problems I have with the writing, such as Horatio becoming more and more unhinged as the series goes on. I will not be touching the police brutality of the series, particularly in later seasons, with a ten foot pole. Frankly, I think it would have been better if Horatio quit after "Rio" (or even before then) and became a social worker, given that he's good with kids and crime victims -- would probably have kept him from going off the deep end sooner. 
> 
> A few things: the scenes of Horatio's abuse, and his struggles with dealing it and seeking help (albeit decades overdue, in his case), are very loosely based on my own experience (minus the murders, of course). Dr. Patel is my character. Marisol's profession is my own interpretation of her, as is her wearing a wig, and looking more sick than she appears in the series. I consider CSI: Miami a guilty pleasure largely because I can relate to what Horatio went through -- being treated like garbage, and spending a lifetime later trying to convince himself that he is a worthwhile person. Perhaps I read more into his personal quirks than what I should, but not being able to look someone straight in the eye while talking, and dealing with a temper is something I can relate to, given that I had to experience in my own household as a child. Like him in this, the abuse got worse as I got older.
> 
> I like to think that, in an alternate universe, the shot went wide, and Marisol survived. In a way, she and Horatio did get to run off together across the Brooklyn Bridge, to where no one could ever harm them.
> 
> The concepts for Horatio and Marisol's courtship in this, darting from shadow to shadow, were inspired by Margaret Atwood's The Blind Assassin.


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